


Pineapple on Pizza

by HigherMagic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cinderella Elements, Color Blindness, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Musician!Castiel, Musicians, awesome!charlie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15568068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: In a world where everyone is colorblind until meeting their soulmate, Castiel suddenly sees color during one of his concerts.





	Pineapple on Pizza

**Author's Note:**

> this is so cute and sweet I physically had to restrain myself from killing someone in the story as I was writing it. 
> 
> featuring cute college au with psychology student!dean and musician!cas, with a sprinkling of charlie and anna being awesome and questionable but amazing food choices.

"Oh my God, Charlie, will you hurry up?"

Dean mutters this at his phone, which predictably doesn't answer. He sighs, checking the time again, and tosses his phone into the cupholder, sitting back in the seat of his car with another loud, discomforted sound.

Finally, she emerges from her apartment building. She's wearing a dress and boots, the splotches of gray and black swirl in time with the movement of the skirt around her legs. She hurries to the car, her hair a bright silver as the sun hits it. Dean straightens, unlocking the passenger side door as she gets to it.

She slides inside with a huff, tucking her hair back behind her ears. "Sorry!" she says. "Reno threw up on my shirt and I had to change."

Dean accepts the excuse without complaint. Reno is Charlie's cat, which she adopted several months prior. Dean is the only other person he seems to like.

He starts the engine and peels out of the parking lot of her apartment building. The traffic on the main road is heavy and he merges in with caution as she pulls at his aux cable attached to the cassette tape insert and plugs her phone in to act as DJ for the drive. Soon the sounds of a gently-plucked guitar fill the car, and Dean hums along to the tune, knowing it since she has played it many times before.

She settles in her seat, her elbow on the window ledge, eyes fixed forward. She's tapping her fingers against the side of her phone in time to the beat. "Thanks again for coming with me," she tells him after a moment. "I'd have had to go solo, or invite Glinda and she doesn't even like his music."

" _I_ don't like his music," Dean says coolly. The Honda in front of him slams on its brakes, lights blaring wide in an off-white glow. He gives a huff of frustration.

She grins at him, toothy and wide. "But you love me, right?" she says, and Dean jerks as a teasing finger jabs itself into his side.

"Hey, I'm driving here!" he protests, without heat.

She laughs. "You can't hate his music that much. You're humming along to it right now."

Dean rolls his eyes, and doesn't answer.

"You should thank me. Big venues like this are always the best places to see color."

"I'm missing out on studying for my final by coming to this," he replies.

"Well, I think disproving the idea that soulmates exist can wait another day."

Dean huffs again, sets his teeth together, and loosens his shoulders after a conscious effort. "I'm not having this argument again," he says.

Charlie blows a stray piece of her fringe from her forehead, runs her fingers across her scalp and shakes her hair free of her ears. She slouches down in her seat and puts her booted feet up, flat against the windshield. "I don't know why you're so stubborn," she says quietly. Like he's hurt her with his adamancy.

"Let's focus on the fact that I'm being a good friend by coming with you. _And_ being a free ride, I might add."

She smiles. "Yes, you're the pinnacle of human kindness," she replies, airily. She rolls down the window and holds her hand out, waving it up and down in the invisible air currents. The traffic starts to clear as they leave the road where the stoplights end. The ones on this street are older and still use the color system, forcing people to rely on knowing that the top is red, the bottom green. In the cities, they use the words 'Stop' and 'Go'.

"You eaten yet?" Dean asks, when the silence has stretched on between them and the only break is the introduction of drums in the song, the guitar gaining a brother and building to the first chord, before the singing starts. Castiel Novak is a new arrival to the American music scene. He only has one song Dean has heard of, overplayed on every radio station like they all are, nowadays.

Charlie hums along with the song, and shakes her head. "Scarfed down leftover Chinese about an hour ago," she replies.

Dean nods, spies a McDonald's, and slows to pull into the drive-thru. "Well, I'm not dealing with you on an empty stomach."

"Can I get a shake?"

"You got your Lactaid pills?"

She clucks her tongue in the side of her mouth and smiles at him. "No."

"Then, no," Dean replies.

"Screw you. I'm getting one anyway."

Dean rolls his eyes, and sighs, pulling up to the window. "It's your funeral."

 

 

"I think I'm going to throw up."

Anna tuts, shaking her head. The ringlets around her face fall in a heavy cascade, and Castiel knows they're a dark red even though to him they look closer to black. He looks up when she approaches him, her hands fluttering around his face, tugging at his hair to work it back to its upward coif. Sweat has been fighting his hair gel all day.

"You'll be _fine_ ," she says adamantly, and pinches his cheeks. Castiel winces and resists the urge to wipe at his face. "Wolf Trap is relatively small, for a venue, but it's gonna be great for your label and your brand."

"My stomach doesn't really care about my label and my brand," Castiel replies, more sullen and pouting than he'd intended. Even as he thinks about it, his gut clenches with nerves, butterflies shaking in his stomach and fluttering up to his chest. He's going to pass out if he doesn't get a hold of himself.

He sits forward in his chair, forehead against his palms, and winces at the bright flare of overhead lights. Around him, people are clearing off the opening act's set, and he managed to put it together enough to congratulate the opening band before his nerves had overtaken him. He's been sitting in his green room for almost twenty minutes and when he listens hard enough, he can hear the blaring roar of the audience, waiting for him. Calling for him.

His hands tremble and he bites his lower lip, looking down at the wristband on his left arm. It's a blur of grays right now, and Castiel knows that when he meets his soulmate, the world will explode in color. This will be the thing that tells him for real when it happens. Everyone carries something like it – Anna used to wear a necklace with a rainbow pendant, but she hasn't worn it since she met and married her soulmate.

Anna circles his chair, takes his hands in hers and forces their eyes to meet. She's smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and she cups his face. "You're going to be great," she says kindly. Castiel tries to match her smile but thinks it might come out more of a grimace than anything else.

"You got any Aspirin?" he asks her.

She sighs, and nods. Behind her, her bag sits, and she reaches into the Mary Poppins layer of deepness that all mothers seem to have, pulling out such a bottle with a flourish.

"Don't overdo it," she says – a friendly warning as she presses the bottle into his hands. "I've got to go talk with the lighting tech and make sure everything's ready. Break a leg! You'll be great, I know it!"

Castiel sighs down at the bottle as she leaves the room. The lights around his vanity cast his pallid face in sharp shadows. Castiel looks at himself, and wonders when the last time was that he ate anything that wasn't candy or fast food. He's had a sweet tooth all his life, and now his stomach is reminding him, sharply, that a salad would probably go a long way into making him feel anything other than constantly exhausted. _And all that caffeine_ , another voice tells him that Castiel thinks might be his kidneys.

He opens the bottle, pours two pills into his hand, and swallows them dry. He stands. "Here goes," he tells his reflection. They exchange nods, and Castiel bites his lower lip, wonders if he's really as pale as he looks or if that's just something his eyes see at this moment. He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, knowing the Virginia humidity will have him sweating worse when he gets on stage, but at least the jacket will hide the stains.

He dons it, grabs his guitar, and leaves the room.

 

 

Dean smirks when Charlie clutches her stomach, groaning. Her giant McFlurry sits half-eaten in the cupholder, and Dean would complain about it, but one look at her stills his tongue. "How you holdin' up, Champ?"

"Shut up," Charlie says, grumbling and getting out of the car as they park and join the stragglers of the crowd as they approach the venue. They'd timed it so that the opening acts will be finished soon, if they haven't already, and they get in the sparse line as they wait to enter the Wolf Trap concert area.

The venue sits on a large hill, and there are outpost-like wooden fences collaring the open lot, with grassed areas on a sharp decline that lead to the assigned seating. They scan their tickets and trek down the steps, hands on the rail, and approach the covered area. The stage is dark, flutters of movement across it as equipment and instruments are swapped out.

Their seats are right next to another concrete path that display a sign for bathrooms, and Dean thinks that's good, because Charlie may need them sooner rather than later. Those gathered are dressed in a shocking about of bright white – neon colors, Dean knows. Those that don't see color still dress as such, for the most part. It's like peacocking. A potential soulmate is always just around the corner.

So the pamphlets say.

Dean cannot imagine wanting to meet one's soulmate while dressed in something so garish, but again, he has never seen real colors. Perhaps neon orange _is_ an attractive look. He's certainly no expert. He naturally has always gone for darker shades of black and gray in the spectrum he can see, and as a result he sticks out as a dark spot amidst the silvery tones of everyone else.

The stage brightens abruptly, and the crowd goes wild around them. Charlie surges to her feet and Dean sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and stands as well.

The stage flashes with light, sparkling silver and white as the accompanying musicians come out to their respective instruments. The base drum has Castiel Novak's name emblazoned across it and Dean presses his lips together, there's a sweep of lights across the crowd.

A flash of something other than black and white hits the corner of his eye, and he frowns, looking towards it. It's at the corner of the stage, a giant banner with the words 'Wolf Trap 2018' on it, black on white. But as he watches, the white part becomes saturated. With no frame of reference within the rainbow, Dean has no idea what color it is, but it looks warm. Bright. Tinged with gray but rapidly fading into the true color and, when Dean turns his eyes up, he sees the dark sunset sky reflecting the same.

Orange? Pink?

"Charlie," he whispers, reaching out and clutching her arm.

She groans, abruptly, and holds her stomach, pawing at his hand. "I need the bathroom," she says, and doesn't wait for him to answer. She shoves past him and darts for the sign leading to the bathrooms, and Dean follows, at a loss of anything else to do.

She slams herself against the women's entrance and Dean stops. He can't exactly follow her in. He plants himself outside the door, shoulders against the concrete, and pulls out his phone. His screensaver is the rainbow and he looks at it, eyes widening as the colors start to fade from the spectrum of gray, saturated like someone is pouring fresh ink into them.

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue…

He looks around. The grass is sparking with green-like color, fading in like someone has wiped a dirty screen clean and he can see it, clearly. He looks down at his feet, sees his shoes turning dark blue, a flicker of white and bright green-yellow at the edges.

The sign on the bathroom door is blue. Dark blue, like the edges of the sky. Dean gazes up in wonder, lips parted, eyes wide. The stars, where they are visible, no longer pinprick in spots of white amidst black and grey. Now they dance in color, the horizon a blistering orange-yellow, blushing red-white to dark blue.

"Holy shit," he breathes. His hands are shaking. He looks down at his phone and unlocks it, immediately pulling up a full-color spectrum on Google. _Pink_ , he finds. The sky is pink in places.

His fingers curl.

His soulmate is _here_.

Dean isn't quite sure what to make of that.

 

 

The roar of the crowd does nothing for Castiel's headache or his nerves, but as the age-old adage says; The Show Must Go On!

He takes a deep breath and looks over his shoulder, finding Anna standing a little ways behind him. She smiles at him, and holds two thumbs up.

He replies with a tight, strained smile of his own, rolls his shoulders, and steps out onto the stage. The shrieks get louder and more high-pitched, and he waves his free hand, both to shield his eyes from the glare of the lights, and in greeting.

He takes his place center stage, and the first chords of his opening number begin to play. The drums titter out a soft crescendo, cymbals rising, a heavy beat of the foot pedal against the base drum. Castiel starts to strum his guitar, sets his eyes down and prays that he doesn't mess up.

He freezes.

His wristband catches his eye, bright color slamming into existence where previously there had only been a mesh of gray hues. He stops playing, and the drums stutter, hesitate, peter out. Castiel can't move. He looks at his wristband, his eyes wide, and jumps when his lead guitarist touches his shoulder to catch his attention.

"You alright, man?" he yells over the noise. His name is Gabriel, and he's been Castiel's best friend since middle school, on tour with him since he became a 'sensation'.

Castiel swallows, his fingers curling. "Color," he says weakly. His voice echoes over the quiet stands, as he's standing close to his microphone and it catches.

Gabriel frowns. "What?"

"I, uh. I see -." Castiel makes a fist, shakes his head as though the colors will fade away if he thinks about it too hard. His eyes sweep over the crowd, take in the glaring flashes of bright colors, the soft red and blue lights on the stage, the overwhelming sweep of green beyond the stands where other crowd members have laid out picnics and tarps to watch the show. "I see color," he says again, louder this time, so Gabriel can hear.

Gabriel's eyes widen, and a heavy whisper spreads throughout the crowd. Castiel looks at Gabriel, helplessly meeting his eyes. They're a golden color, like the edges of the sky. Gabriel turns to Anna and gestures for her to come over.

She rushes to them both, frowning, and her hair is red, so red – dark, dark red. Castiel can't speak. "What's wrong? Is he okay?" she asks Gabriel, then turns to Castiel. "Are you okay?"

"I see color," Castiel whispers again.

Her eyes – blue, blue like the edges of the sky where light still touches – widen. Her lipstick is the same white-red of her cheeks. Her blouse and jeans are blue, her heels yellow. Neon yellow – so bright, it's all so _bright_. Castiel looks down at his guitar, red and gold, shimmering brightly.

Anna's face splits in a wide smile. "Honey, that's amazing!" she says. She looks out over the crowd, noting that their whispering has gotten louder, and people are snapping a myriad of photographs. The flashes of their cameras make Castiel flinch.

She turns to Gabriel. "Get him backstage," she says.

"No," Castiel says, shaking his head. "My soulmate is here – they might be one of the crowd! I have to -."

"I will handle it," Anna says, firmly, her hands on Castiel's shoulders. "Get backstage. _Now_."

Gabriel tugs on Castiel's arm, and Castiel follows him, unable to get up the wherewithal to resist. He walks like a dumb, trained dog on a leash, his mind reeling. The door to his green room is black – actually black – and Castiel blinks in surprise to see that the green room is not, in fact, green.

He loops his guitar strap over his head, sets it down, and sits on the couch, marveling at the light blue color of it. Gabriel sits down next to him with a sigh, running a hand through his hair – his hair is light. Yellowy, but not pure yellow. Castiel doesn't know what to say.

Gabriel leans his head back against the wall, then rolls his eyes to Castiel. "You couldn't have picked a better time?" he says, teasing, smile lopsided and playful.

Castiel shivers, pressing his knees together with his hands between them. He looks down at his wristband. Then, he smiles, slow and wide.

"My soulmate is out there," he whispers.

Gabriel huffs a laugh. "Guess so," he replies. "Lucky."

They fall into companionable silence, and then Gabriel whispers, very quietly; "What's it like?" Castiel looks at him. "Colors?"

"It's beautiful," Castiel replies, breathlessly. He looks around the room, takes in the red frames of posters from previous concerts held at Wolf Trap, the bright candy packaging at his mirror, the offensively glaring shade of the sleeves of his coat. He winces, and shrugs it off. He doesn't like that shade.

"Really?" Gabriel says, and rolls his eyes. "No other words come to mind? You're meant to be a poet."

Castiel huffs, runs a hand through his hair, and stands. He goes to the mirror. His eyes are blue – not bright like Anna's, darker, flecked with gray, but not the colorless gray. His hair is still black, and he touches his temple and contemplates adding a streak of some other color. His t-shirt is red and he can't imagine that red and orange go together and wonders why Anna allows him to dress like this.

"Well, I'm happy for you," Gabriel calls to him.

Castiel smiles.

 

 

"I'm gonna die," Charlie moans as Dean pours her into his car. "I'm gonna die. This is the seventh layer of Hell. Tell my mom I love her."

"Stop being so dramatic," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. He pulls back, biting his lower lip. Her dress has gained color now, a floral pattern of sea foam and pink. He knows what those colors look like, now. He's still not quite sure how to deal with the concept.

He circles his car – black, his car is black, he knew that when he inherited it but now he _sees_ it – and gets in the driver seat.

Charlie rolls her head to the side, pouting at him. Her hair is a bright, gingery shade, layered with neon green. Why on Earth would she dye it that color. Her eyes are brown. "I'm sorry I dragged you out here," she says.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "It's a win for me," he replies lightly. "Means I didn't have to suffer through a whole set."

"Asshole," Charlie replies without much heat. She winces, clutching her stomach.

"If you throw up in my car, I'm leaving you here."

She waves a hand at him. "Shut up and drive," she says. She does sound genuinely morose, and her face is shiny-pale with sweat. Dean takes pity on her, and starts the car, pulling away. She wipes a hand over her mouth and sighs. "Guess you'll get to finish that paper after all."

"Yeah, no, I'll be playing night nurse to you because you have self-control issues."

She grins, and winks at him. Her eyeshadow matches her dress, at least – a soft pink above her dark lashes.

Dean puts his eyes forward again, marveling at the blare of red and green of the street lights as he drives past them. The golden-yellow arch of the McDonald's where Charlie sealed her fate. The brown light posts, the soft white-orange of oncoming car lights. The mismatched reds and grays of business fronts. The green of the trees – so green, so _vibrant_. The world is so vibrant, and he had no idea.

He presses his lips together, nodding to himself. The world has a myriad of ways for soulmates to find their missed connections. He'll post a personal to Craigslist and the Facebook page of the concert tonight, and if anyone else saw color that night, he'll be able to find them.

After all, everyone wants to meet their soulmate, don't they?

 

 

Castiel looks up from where he'd been sorting M&M's by color, to see Anna enter his green room. She's smiling wide enough that Castiel attributes the color yellow to her – she's glowing with it.

"We made an announcement," she declares. "Everyone who attended the concert and saw color is invited to the D.C. office tomorrow, and we'll be able to do a color match and figure out which one is your soulmate."

Castiel frowns. "You think we'll need the test?" he asks.

Gabriel scoffs. "You're a celebrity, dude," he says. "Remember when that Senator saw colors? Line was around the block. Twice, so I heard."

Anna hums, pressing her lips together, her hands on her hips. Her nails are painted the same yellow as her heels. "Unfortunately, honesty doesn't really factor in when it comes to stuff like this," she replies. "And I wouldn't be surprised if there were people who tried to fake it."

"That's…awful," Castiel says.

She shrugs. "It's the way of the world, honey," she replies. "Now!" She claps her hands together. "The show was a bust, unfortunately, but this is wonderful news! We ought to celebrate!"

"He's been counting M&M's for twenty minutes," Gabriel mutters. "I definitely need a drink."

Castiel shakes his head. He doesn't want to go out. He wants to go _back_ , to find his soulmate. He wants to know what they look like – if they're male or female. If they're young, or old. He can't imagine he wouldn't know his soulmate on sight.

But Anna is not a woman easily dissuaded, and Gabriel even less so. He stands, forgoing his ugly orange jacket, and dons a black leather one instead. She winks at him, grinning wide, and ushers him into her car, Gabriel in the backseat.

 

 

Dean drives Charlie back to her apartment and helps her inside, plying her with Lactaid and water as she collapses on her couch. Reno runs up to Dean, purring at his feet. He's a black and white mess of splotches, and Dean smiles, picking the cat up as it butts its head against his chin and glad that he took allergy meds beforehand.

"Your mom," he tells the cat, "is a stubborn princess. Oh yes she is."

"I can still throw things at you!" Charlie yells.

"And hurt your precious Reno? Hah!" But Dean takes pity on her, and sits on the end of the couch. He grabs her remote and turns the TV on, bringing up Netflix. She rolls onto her side so she can watch, rubbing at her stomach absently, and toes off her boots as he navigates to their latest binge craze – a TV show about werewolves and zombies. Or he thinks it's about that. He never paid much attention.

He itches to go home and put up his post, but he should wait and be a good friend. The show starts, and Dean is mesmerized at the bright splashes of red and white on the logo of the show. The pink of the brains. The dazzling off-blue of the ocean.

"Huh," he murmurs.

"What?" she says.

He hesitates. He shouldn't tell her he can see color now – she'd only feel more guilty, pulling him away from the concert. And on top of that, he _really_ doesn't want to deal with how she'll react to the possibility of Dean finding his soulmate. She's adamant that his whole attitude towards the idea is cynical and jaded, and Dean is tired of having this argument with her.

"Never mind," he says. Reno settles in his lap, purring loudly, and Charlie huffs.

"Traitor."

"Can't help if he has good taste," Dean replies, grinning. She kicks him.

 

 

The next day, they set the studio up like this: there is one room, a plain white with splotches of yellow and red art on the walls. There are a series of color tests, where people are supposed to see letters and numbers in colors different from the rest of the spectrum on sheets and cards. They come in, sit on the couch, take the tests, and proceed from there.

This hopeful is past the hundredth. Castiel stopped counting after fifty.

He groans, putting his head in his hands. "This is hopeless," he mutters. "How have so many even gotten this far?"

Gabriel huffs. "People get good at reading gray, I guess," he replies. He has a bucket of popcorn in his lap – his third – and a collection of empty beer cans on the table next to him. Castiel's room is small, dark, the only light coming from a window behind Gabriel's head. They're watching the interviews through a video feed, so that neither the tested person nor Castiel runs the risk of interrupting or getting distracted.

He looks down at his wristband and bites his lower lip, flicking it absently so it snaps against his skin.

"Alright, Daphne," Anna says, and holds up another card. "What do you see here?"

The woman on the couch is petite, brunette, and wearing bright blue lipstick. Castiel thinks that's enough evidence that she doesn't really see color. "A horse," she replies.

Anna nods, setting the card down and holding up another. "And here?"

Daphne tilts her head to one side, hesitating. "Um." She licks her lips. "The number three?"

Anna sighs. "Thank you," she says. "That'll be all. Next!"

Castiel can hear the frustration in her voice, and he smiles. "Do you know how many more there are?" he asks Gabriel.

Gabriel shakes his head and opens another beer. "A gazillion? Minus a hundred and sixty-six."

Castiel groans. "How many tickets did I even sell yesterday?" he demands.

"Doesn't really work that way," Gabriel replies. "Groupon's a bitch."

Castiel grits his teeth. "Ballpark, then."

"Not really my paygrade," Gabriel says. "Wolf Trap can hold about seven thousand, I don't know if that includes the lawn area."

"Oh _God_."

"Cheer up, man! You should be flattered! All these people wanna get with you."

"At what cost?" Castiel demands, standing. He eyes Gabriel's beers, contemplates opening one for himself, but discards the notion. He doesn't want to add alcohol to his already-frayed nerves. He runs a hand through his hair and huffs, shoulders sagging. "At this rate I'll have lost colors altogether before I see them."

Gabriel frowns at him. "What's that now?"

"Don't they fade? If you don't meet your soulmate? That's what Anna told me," Castiel replies with another helpless shrug. "If I don't see them, or touch them, or anything, the colors just go away and it's back to black and white. I don't…. I can't go back to that. Now that I've seen it."

"Anna won't let that happen," Gabriel says, as gently as his slurring words can manage. Anna calls in the next hopeful – a man that's easily thrice Castiel's age. He winces internally, and sits back down.

"Hi, Crowley," Anna greets. She holds up a card. "What do you see?"

"The number six."

Anna sighs. "Thank you. Next!"

 

 

Dean won't admit he's depressed. He's not depressed, just…

Disappointed.

He left Charlie's apartment the morning after and posted his ad on Craigslist, before rushing off to class. The day had passed in a blur, but at the end of the it, he'd gotten no texts or phone calls from anyone claiming to have seen color that day as well.

He goes back home, wondering how much of a stereotype he is, sitting in his underwear with leftover pizza from several days prior and watching old cowboy movies on his laptop. He laughs at himself. He never knew how bright the desert was before – it's enthralling. Dean wants to visit it, someday, so he can see that blue and yellow for himself.

Charlie comes by his apartment the next day, two giant slushees in hand. "As a thank you," she says. "Strawberry or raspberry?"

Dean eyes the drinks warily. "Um." He presses his lips together, and takes the red one. She raises an eyebrow when he takes a sip, and lets her into his apartment without another word. She pauses once she's inside, her other eyebrow joining the first.

"Redecorating?" she asks.

Dean shrugs. The lime green of his couch had started to bother him, especially since it doesn't match his navy-blue beanbag chair, nor the silver of his appliances. The worst of it, though, was the terrible mismatch of neon colors that had been a piece of art his parents had gotten for him years ago, when he'd first moved in, when it had been him and Sam before Sam met Jessica. The clashing highlighter yellow, with the salmon pink, the jutting shards of silver and the navy blue, hurt his head to look at. Right now, the painting is turned facing the wall, by his trashcan. Along with several posters he's had since middle school.

In its place, above the couch, is a cheap copy of Van Gogh's _Starry Night_. He likes the blues.

"Dean," Charlie says, fixing him with a look, "you've had those posters as long as I've known you. And you're practically allergic to change. What's going on?"

Dean shrugs again, and takes another sip of slushee. "I like that one better," he says.

She huffs. "Looks like a bunch of lines to me," she replies, and takes a sip of her own drink. She blanches. "Ugh, why'd you steal the strawberry?"

"The color of yours is unnatural. You should have gotten two strawberries if you wanted one."

"I'll have you know -." She pauses, and whirls on him, her eyes wide. "Wait. Hold the Hell up. What did you just say?"

"If you wanted strawberry -."

" _Not_ what I meant, asshole!" she says, stomping her foot. She's wearing the same boots as the day before last, her skirt is black, and her shirt is blue with the word 'California' written in glittery pink. She fixes him with an accusing glare. "You can see color?"

Dean blinks. "Oh." He shrugs. "Yeah. Guess so."

"'Guess so'? 'Guess _so_ '?!" she demands. "Since when?"

"Been a couple days now," Dean replies. He's getting bored of standing in his hallway, so he goes into his apartment and plops down on the ugly green couch.

She follows him like a shadow, her brown eyes wide and painted with golden-glittery eyeshadow. "And you were going to tell me _when_?"

Dean sighs, sets his slushee down on his glass coffee table, and rubs his hands over his face. "Can we skip past the outrage and indignation, please? You're giving me an ulcer."

"I'm sorry, I just found out my best friend found his soulmate and -."

"I didn't," Dean growls.

Charlie pauses, straightening up, her teeth clicking together audibly. She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Dean begins, and sighs. "I saw color at the concert. But you got sick, and we left. So I haven't met my soulmate, whoever they are. I put up an add on Craigslist but no bites."

"Oh my God, Dean! Were you ever gonna tell me?"

"Yeah, I mean, eventually. Probably."

She bites her lower lip, her expression changing from shock and aggravation to hurt. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asks quietly, voice high and young.

"Because I know you're going to take this as proof that soulmates are real – and, I mean, yeah, obviously something happened to trigger me seeing color. But that doesn't mean I should just drop everything and go on a wild goose chase. I don't believe in that."

She sighs, and circles the table, sitting down next to him.

She puts down her drink, crosses her legs, and turns to look at him. Dean wants to chide her for getting mud on his couch, but he honestly thinks any introduction of neutral tones is only an improvement. She puts her elbows on her knees and holds her chin up with one hand.

"Talk," she says.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "What about?"

"Look, I know you hate talking about it, but why don't you believe in soulmates?" She frowns when Dean rolls his eyes. "You never talk about it. You're just so…adamant."

Dean sighs, slouches and looks up at the ceiling. "My parents don't see color," he tells her. "But they love each other. They've been married for almost thirty years and dating since they were in high school. But you're telling me, in this world, there exists someone who's perfect for my mom, or my dad. More perfect than they are for each other. What do you think happens if they ever meet that person?"

Charlie is silent, and when Dean slants his eyes her way, she's frowning, biting the side of her lower lip. "In your world, that happy marriage disappears. My dad could run off with some twenty-year-old prostitute because they see color now. My mom could end up causing a second divorce with another person because she saw color with that mom or dad. Families get ruined that way."

"But, Dean," Charlie says, sighing, "you're not married. You don't have kids."

Dean rolls his eyes, sets his sight on the ceiling again. "Not the point."

She doesn't say anything.

"And what if my soulmate is, like, a kid?" Dean says, grimacing. "Or a serial killer? Or, I don't know, racist? The nature of the soul and the nature of the person can't always line up perfectly. That's not the way the world works."

Charlie sighs, drumming her gold-painted nails against her cheek. "Well," she begins, and Dean looks to her again. She purses her lips and shrugs. "I mean, you're right, but just because someone's your soulmate doesn't mean you have to be with them." She tilts her head to one side. "But isn't not knowing worse than knowing? What if this person is _perfect_ for you?"

Dean huffs, smiling off-kilter. "'Better to have loved and lost', is that it?"

She shrugs.

"Alright, I'm done talking," Dean says, reaching for his remote. "Watch bad TV with me or get out."

"I'm game for bad TV," she replies. She doesn't let him use her Netflix at his house, so he turns to a channel playing F.R.I.E.N.D.S. reruns and settles on that as they both drink their slushees. After an episode, Dean can't take Charlie's gagging anymore and lets them swap drinks.

 

 

"Six thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine hopefuls of Castiel's soulmate on the wall, six thousand -."

"I'm gonna stop you right there," Castiel says, kicking Gabriel in the shin hard enough to make him hiss, rubbing the sore spot. "And you need to stop drinking before I have Anna come in here and cut you off."

Gabriel answers with a one-fingered salute, and Castiel rolls his eyes, plopping himself down on the couch. "Three days," he mutters, rubbing his fingers over his eyelids. His head is killing him but he's dosed up on pretty much every type of medicine he can take for it. "When will it end?"

"When you're skipping off into the sunset, hand in hand with your soulmate," Gabriel drawls. "Or did I miss something?"

"Good morning, Michael." Anna's voice filters over the camera, and Castiel opens his eyes, fingertips dragging down his cheeks and curling under his jaw. He sits forward, his eyes on the new person in the room. Michael is tall, skinny, his hair a striped pattern of coppery-red and blond. Castiel can't tell what color his eyes are.

"Morning!" Michael greets, sitting down on the white couch.

Anna smiles, and starts in on her stack of cards. "The number seven," Michael says, and Anna nods, setting it down and holding up another. "A sunset. Orange on the bottom, blue on top." Anna's smile widens, and she straightens up, holding up another card. Castiel can't see them, from his angle – Anna said he shouldn't see them in case he got it into his head to tell people what to expect. Like he would. "The number eight." Another card. "A flamingo. Pink."

"Very good," Anna says quietly. She stands and goes to her purse and pulls out a set of silk scarves like magicians use for magic tricks. There is one for every color of the rainbow. She sets them out in front of Michael. "Point to the red one."

Michael does. Castiel's breath catches, and he sits forward. It's enough to, apparently, draw Gabriel's attention. He burps and clears his throat.

"Something good happening?"

"Shh," Castiel says, kicking at his heel.

Anna nods. "Point to the blue one," she says. Michael does so, and Anna pauses. "Point to the black one."

Castiel frowns. There isn't a black scarf.

Michael hesitates, and then bites his lip. He points to the purple scarf, and Anna sighs. "Thank you, Michael," she says, sounding disappointed. "Next!"

Gabriel huffs. "Damn."

Castiel looks down at the band on his wrist. The yellow and orange are starting to look too similar. He stands. "Screw this," he mutters. "I can't take it anymore."

 

 

"What color are my eyes?"

"Brown," Dean says. "Like dirt."

Charlie blanches, flicking him on the arm. "Dick."

"What? You asked."

She hums. "What color are your eyes?"

"Green," Dean replies. "Dry grass." He'd stared at his own reflection for so long, it bordered on vanity, when he first got home. "And my hair is…brown. Ish. Like light brown." He shrugs. "Common for Irish descent, I guess."

Charlie looks at him like he's a new piece of art, like she can see the colors as he speaks them. She reaches out and tugs on a strand of his hair. "Brown, huh? I imagined brown to be a bright color."

"Every color has shades," Dean says, shaking his head. "I never realized. There's way more than just what they teach you in the song."

"How many?" Charlie asks, eyes wide.

"Countless. Hundreds."

"Wow." She shakes her head again, and then frowns. "What happens if you never find out who your soulmate is?"

"The colors will fade," Dean says. He can't help feeling a little morose at the idea. The world is so vibrant, so beautiful, it'll be a shame when it undoubtedly fades away. He ignores the little clench in his gut, anticipating the loss.

Charlie watches him for a moment, her eyes turning soft with sympathy. Dean isn't sure why she's so upset by the idea – better to have loved and lost, sure, maybe, but much better not to have even tried in the first place, in Dean's opinion.

He turns his attention back to the TV show playing on his little television. The colors of the park the characters are in are starting to gray out. He swallows, and turns up the volume as it goes to commercial. Charlie sighs beside him, flopping down on the couch and putting her socked feet on his lap.

She takes out her phone and starts scrolling as an advertisement for catheters starts to play.

Then, she freezes, and kicks at Dean's thigh hard enough to hurt. "Ow! What the Hell?" he demands, glaring at her.

She's grinning, positivity vibrating with excitement. "Castiel Novak's stage manager tweeted an announcement this morning," she says. "Apparently the concert I barfed at didn't even happen."

"Fascinating," Dean says dryly.

"No! Dean shut up, _God_ ," Charlie mutters, rolling her eyes. She pulls her feet to herself, tucks them under, and rolls upright, thrusting her phone into Dean's face. Dean rolls his eyes, takes it, and reads the article out loud. It's a series of tweets with paragraphs between, Buzzfeed-style, and Dean ignores those, reading the tweets instead;

"I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to come to our studio for the color tests over the last few days. Castiel wants to apologize again to all his fans who were in attendance at his concert, only to have it cut short."

He stops, frowning, and looks at Charlie for a moment. She's gripping the back of his couch tightly, bouncing on her knees.

"We've called a temporary halt to the color tests. As I'm sure everyone knows, colors are maintained through proximity, and while Castiel has remained in the studio while we conduct our tests, I regret to inform everyone that his color sight has begun to fade, leading us to conclude that no one who has come forward so far is his soulmate.

I urge you, if you attended the concert at Wolf Trap last week, and haven't come forward, to do so if you have started to see in color. Castiel is very eager to meet his soulmate and would love the chance." The last tweet has a generic email address for people to reach out to.

Dean lowers her phone, and meets Charlie's eyes again. He grimaces. "No."

"Dean, you _saw color_ at the concert!" she says. "And you've been here since, or at my place, moping around like some depressed cliché. It could be him!"

"You know, this just further proves my point," Dean says, rolling his eyes and tossing her phone into her lap. "A musician? Come on, Charlie. We don't have anything in common."

"Says you," Charlie challenges. She sits back and nudges him with her toe. "Ask me anything about him."

"No."

"Dean, there's being difficult, and then there's just being an asshole," Charlie says with a frustrated huff. "Why is it so hard to believe that you perfect match is out there? I'm not asking you to marry the guy – just to see if maybe…"

She stops at the look on his face, and clenches her jaw, determined. "Well, I'm going to email his manager anyway."

"What?" Dean's eyes widen when she picks up her phone. "Don't!" He makes a grab for it but she evades him, holding it above her head and leaning back over the arm of the couch, her knees against his chest as he lunges for her in an effort to relieve her of her phone. "This is stupid, come on -."

"His favorite food is Mac'n'Cheese with tuna and peas in it," she says, awkwardly turning so she can look at her phone. She unlocks it and pulls up an email draft. Dean growls, standing, and she scrambles to her feet and starts to circle the table. "He likes visiting art galleries and museums. He's a night owl." Dean runs around the table and she shrieks, skirting away from him, and bolts towards the bathroom. "His favorite band is Rise Against, and he was quoted saying his favorite memory is when he visited Rome with his family and saw the Trippoli fountains!"

"Charlie!" Dean yells, as she closes and locks the door to the bathroom. He slams his fist against it. "Stop this right now!"

"His parents are soulmates and met when they were in their twenties," she says, muffled through the door. Dean growls, rubbing his hands over his face, and leans against the opposite wall. How much trouble would he get in for busting the door down – probably too much. Might be worth it. "He has two little sisters and when he's at home he spends all his time at the animal sanctuary his parents run."

Dean pauses. "…Really?"

Charlie laughs. "He went to college with a dual major of music theory and philosophy," she adds.

Dean sighs. None of those things, he'll admit, sound _bad_ , per se. "Charlie," he says, one more time – warning. "Open the door. I don't want to meet him."

"Why the Hell _not_?" she replies. Dean hears a creak of plastic as she sits down on the closed toilet lid. Her phone clicks as she types away. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Dean sighs, swallows. He slides down the wall to his haunches, rubbing his hands over his face again.

He hasn't really gone into detail with her about why, exactly, the idea of a soulmate is so unwanted – at least, not past his hang-ups regarding his parents, and the numerous case studies his degree has shown him of families torn apart by ill-timed color explosions.

But if there is no other way to convince her; "What if…" He stops, closes his eyes, forces himself to say it through gritted teeth; "What if we don't like each other?"

Her phone stops clicking.

"I mean, what if he _does_ fall in love with me, or me with him, but it's not mutual?"

Charlie pauses, and then she sighs. "That's not how soulmates work, Dean."

"But what if -?"

"Look." The door opens, and Dean looks up at her. She's holding her phone to him, showing him the email draft, her thumb hovering over 'Send'. She crouches down and rests a hand on his knee. "You've never met anyone who found their soulmate, right? Except Sam?"

Dean shakes his head.

"Then you have no idea how it feels." Her voice is kind, and soft. Dean looks away. "But I do. Sam does."

He blinks, and looks back at her.

"When Sam and Jess met, they saw colors, married within two months. He told me it felt like the world simply _fit_ , with her. She's made him so happy, it's like he's a whole other person now. _Better_. Wouldn't you agree?"

Dean sighs.

"That painting you have on the wall," she says. Dean looks down the hallway towards it, where it sits over his lime green couch. The blues are all starting to look the same now. "The grass, the sunset. You really want all of that to go away? You don't even want to try?"

Dean sighs again, settling his hands on his thighs. He digs his nail into the thinning patch on his jeans where it stretches over one knee.

"You might be right," she adds when he meets her eyes. "But you might be wrong. Is it worth it?"

Dean swallows tightly, presses his lips together, and shakes his head. She smiles, kind and affectionate, and pats his knee. "Can I send the email?" she asks.

"May as well," he replies. She makes a high-pitched, gleeful sound, and clicks 'Send'. Dean sighs when the message sends with a little whooshing noise. "But you're responsible for whatever mayhem you wreak from this."

"Gladly shouldered and accepted," she says, and stands. "Now come on." She holds out a hand to him. "I'm hungry, and I'm not eating that nasty shit you call pizza."

He rolls his eyes and lets her haul him upright. "Fine," he replies. "Let's go get some real food."

 

 

Dean will never admit it, but when Charlie finally leaves him alone for the night after he tells her again and again that his finals will not wait for his soulmate to get his act together, he does some research on Castiel Novak. He listens to the guy's music – which is, he'll admit, not half bad. He pulls up interviews and finds himself smiling at the guy's shy, blushing demeanor whenever he's asked questions. Dean gets the vibe from him that he just wants to make music, and while the fame and fortune is appreciated, it's not entirely welcomed in the way some people want to be famous. Whenever he talks about his music, his eyes light up. There's one interview that's almost forty minutes long and all it is is Castiel talking about his sisters and the dogs they've fostered and adopted along the way.

"Damn, you're adorable," he mutters to himself. His thesis sits on his computer, neglected and almost entirely forgotten.

 

 

The next morning, Anna bursts into Castiel's hotel room in a flourish of faded pinks and purples. Castiel groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes as she throws the curtains open, and rolls onto his side to shield himself from the bright light.

"What time is it?" he mutters.

"Time for you to get up!" Anna replies. She approaches the bed and throws his covers off, exposing his bare chest to the cold in the room. Castiel flinches, fighting her for the blankets, before he gives up and sighs, rolling onto his back.

"Do I have an interview or something?" he asks, sitting up.

"Kind of," she replies, giving him a thousand-watt smile. He huffs, rolls his eyes, and rubs his hands through his hair and over his face. "You have twenty minutes. Up and at 'em, honey!"

She leaves so that he can shower and get dressed, and Castiel manages to force himself from the warm comfort of his bed, into the bathroom. He sheds his clothes and steps into the shower, wincing when the water is cold for way longer than comfortable before it heats up. The tiles in the bathroom are a gray-green, pearlescent, and Castiel doesn't want to think about how much brighter they'd been the day before.

He showers quickly and pulls on a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, glad that he can at least see enough color to know he's not dressing in anything particularly flashy today. The colors in the air are fading and he sighs, looking down at his wristband as he puts on his shoes. It's like looking at the colors through sunglasses, everything is just a little darker and a little less vibrant.

He grabs his room key, wallet, and black jacket, shrugging it on as he heads downstairs. Anna is on the phone in the hotel lobby and thrusts a coffee into his hands, chattering away, without missing a beat. Castiel has always admired her ability to multitask.

She grins at him, ruffles his wet hair, and leads the way to their car, which is waiting outside the valet station. Castiel doesn't pay attention to what she's saying, used to tuning her out when she makes arrangements with reporters and venue managers. They'll probably have to arrange another concert to make up for the one he so spectacularly messed up.

She hangs up and slides into place beside him, and the driver gets in and they peel away from the hotel. "You're in a chipper mood," Castiel murmurs in the face of her happy silence.

She hums. "We got him," she says.

"What?"

"I tweeted about your interviews and said there must have been someone at the concert who saw color, but hasn't come forward. We got an email yesterday from a young woman who claims her friend saw color, but they had to leave the concert early."

Castiel frowns down at his coffee lid. "Why didn't they come forward already?" he asks, unable to stop the little niggling doubt in his chest. It's been days, and his soulmate would have surely wanted to meet him.

"I don't think he realized," Anna replies. "But you can ask him yourself. We're meeting him at the studio in half an hour."

Castiel swallows, his heart abruptly jumping to double-time. It's the same feeling he got before he walked out on-stage, and whether that's because his soulmate might be there, or because he just has horrible stage fright, he couldn't say one way or the other. "Do you have a name?" he asks, voice hoarse.

She smiles. "Dean."

"Dean," Castiel repeats, testing the name on his tongue. "What do we know about him?"

"Not much. But if he's your soulmate, I'm sure you'll both have time to talk." She grins at him. "This doesn't happen every day, you know."

Oh, Castiel knows. His hands are shaking and he's starting to sweat. He puts the coffee in the cupholder, suddenly unable to stomach the thought of drinking it.

Anna notices, and settles a hand on his arm. "Everything's going to be fine," she says, squeezing gently and giving him a motherly, gentle smile.

"What if he doesn't like me?" Castiel says, whisper-quiet and urgent. "What if he's a crazy person?"

Anna laughs. "Well, that's what you have me for, isn't it?" she replies. "But who wouldn't love you, honey? You're the sweetest boy I've ever met."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, you're biased."

"I'm allowed to be biased," Anna declares. "But I've got a good feeling about this one. Good things come to those you wait, you know."

Castiel nods to himself, takes a deep breath, and tries to relax. He snaps the wristband against his skin in rhythm with the passing of the light posts, and does his best not to throw up.

 

 

Dean enters the studio building, takes in the muted gray walls, the crystalline sparkle of a single glittery black welcome station with the studio logo and name, and shoves his hands into his pockets. He'd dressed as mutely as he was able, a navy-blue t-shirt with a black button-down over it, loose over his shoulders. Plain jeans, black shoes. He didn't want to come off as flashy, peacocking, and this morning it was difficult to identify bright colors from each other, so he'd avoided anything that looked too silver or white, knowing it ran a high risk of being bright.

A woman approaches him with a muted mane of reddish hair, darker than his own. "Dean?" she asks, and when he nods, she smiles and holds out a hand. Her nails are painted a bright yellow, bright enough Dean can still see it. He shakes her hand. "I'm Anna Milton, Castiel's manager. We spoke this morning?"

"Nice to meet you," Dean says. He shoves his hands back into his pockets as soon as the handshake is done. Her smile doesn't change, and she gives him a quick once-over. Apparently, his muted choice of clothing pleases her, as she gestures for him to follow her past the welcome station, across the white marble floor, and towards an elevator.

"Have you ever taken a color test before?" she asks, as the doors close. The sides of the elevator are wood, and the ceiling is mirrored. The lights of the floor buttons glow a piercing orange.

Dean shrugs. "Not since I was a kid," he replies. Children undergo a basic color test before entering school, and then after their first day, in case they have already met their soulmate and are suited to color-enhanced teaching. Dean was not one of those children.

Anna hums. "Well, it will go a similar way," she says. "We have cards with color tests, and I'll ask you to identify what you see. Just answer honestly and it'll be over and done with before you know it."

Dean nods, pressing his lips together. He scratches the back of his head. "Do you see color?" he asks her, noting the off-gold color of her wedding ring.

"Yep," she replies, as the elevator comes to a halt and the doors open with a 'ding!'. The floor of the hallway is carpeted in a dark green, almost black, and the doors are a natural, light, sandy wood. The walls are white. "Met my husband many years ago. This way, please."

She leads him to the second-to-last door, and ushers him inside. The innards are white, art of bright red and yellow on the walls. Dean bites his lower lip at the sight of a video camera set up in front of the couch. He nods to it.

"For posterity?" he asks dryly.

She laughs. "No," she replies, and sits in a chair opposite the couch. Dean sits in the middle of the couch, pressing his hands to the soft, thick leather seats.

Dean pauses when she doesn't say anything more. "…He's watching, isn't he?" he asks.

She raises an eyebrow at him.

"They say soulmates feel something when they see each other. That's why he's watching."

She tilts her head to one side. "Do you study color appearance?" she asks. "Are you in college?"

"Yes ma'am," Dean says. "I want to become a therapist for families who are broken apart by color."

She blinks at him, seems to consider that, and nods. "Well, shall we get started?"

 

 

Castiel can't breathe. Gabriel isn't in the room with him – probably sleeping off three days' worth of hangovers, if Castiel had to guess – and he's standing in the dark room where the video feeds to, his eyes wide on the screen.

He reaches out, knowing it's silly, but he can't help the urge to brush his fingers on the fuzzy, off-hue color of Dean's hair. A soft brown, like dirt or tree bark. His eyes are the same green as spring grass, his cheeks flushed with wind in a delicate pink that reminds Castiel of sunrise.

"Oh my God," he says. He hasn't been able to see pink for a day or so. It was one of the first colors to go.

Anna holds up a card. "What do you see?"

Dean frowns at it, and sighs, shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he says, scratching at his neck. "I, ah, the colors have been fading since I first saw them. I can tell it's blue. Like shallow water in the sun. But if there's a different color there, it's too subtle to see the difference."

Anna nods, and sets the cards down. She reaches into her bag and pulls out the scarves. Castiel can see the colors in them, soaking back into brightness like a developing photograph. His heart is beating so loudly in his chest he can barely hear her say; "Point to the green one."

Dean nods, and does so.

"The orange."

Dean hesitates, and reaches out and touches the orange scarf. "I think it's this one," he says. "But only because it looks like the red, but it's not yellow."

Anna tilts her head to one side. "The black one?"

Dean smiles. "None of these are black," he replies.

Castiel gasps, and reaches for his phone. He calls Anna and watches as she straightens, and frowns down at it. Her eyes go to the camera, and she answers. "Yes?"

"It's him," Castiel whispers, his eyes wide on the screen. "Anna, it's him. I – he needs to see me. Let me meet him."

She pauses, lips pursed, and nods. "Alright. Come on in."

Castiel grins, throwing his phone down, and rushes out of the room. His room is at the end of the hallway and the interviews are one door over. He opens the door, unable to stop himself or even pretend to be calm around it.

Dean's head snaps up, and his eyes widen. "Dean," he breathes.

Dean's expression changes, goes from wary surprise to what Castiel could only describe as pure wonder. Castiel knows what he's seeing – he's seeing the world shape itself into color again, and just as Dean watches, so does he. The red and yellow on the walls explodes with vibrancy, and the green in Dean's eyes blossoms, until it's almost glowing. Hell, the whole room is glowing, lit like it's a mural dipped in gold.

"Castiel," Dean replies, soft. The way he says it, like he's been saying it for a thousand years, been searching and finally thinks 'Oh, there you are, I've been looking everywhere for you'.

Dean stands. He's taller than Castiel, though not by much, and he's thin and pale from a lot of time spent indoors, and when he smiles it splits his entire face. Castiel's own cheeks hurt from smiling back.

Anna stands as well, breaking the moment, and she winks at Castiel. "I'll give you guys some time alone," she says. She turns off the camera and leaves the room, patting Castiel on the shoulder as she leaves. The door closes behind them, sealing them together in something timeless and without a single, fixed point in the universe. This is how stars are born. This is the moment Castiel has read about, sung about, heard about from so many people for so long. He's not sure how to react to feeling it himself.

Dean swallows, his smile softening at the edges, and he takes a step back and gestures to the couch. "Um. Would you like to sit?"

"Sure." Castiel walks in and settles on the end of the couch. Dean remains in the middle, like he doesn't want there to be any more distance between them. It's an emotion Castiel feels mirrored back – he wants to reach out and touch, curls his fingers and shoves them between his knees to stop himself doing so.

For a while, they both sit, simply staring. Is this how art feels when people walk up to it, their heads tilted, and their eyes narrowed in shrewd critique? Castiel thinks, yes, maybe. But Dean's eyes are not narrowed, no part of him seems hostile or even uncomfortable. The butterflies in Castiel's chest calm, settle down on rose bushes and wait, fanning the air with gossamer wings.

Dean clears his throat, cheeks darkening with pink, and rubs the back of his head. "Sorry," he says, and Castiel leans in. "This, ah. I'll be honest, I really didn't expect anything to come out of this at all."

"What do you mean?"

"My friend's the one who sent the email," Dean says, and Castiel nods, as Anna told him as much. "She's the one who dragged me to your concert in the first place. She got food poisoning – that's why we left."

Castiel smiles. "Dragged, huh?" he repeats.

Dean huffs. "Yeah. I was never really…a fan." He clears his throat, meets Castiel's eyes for a brief moment, then looks away. "Not that I think it's bad, really. I've been listening to it a lot more. But I'm more of a classic rock kinda guy."

Castiel nods. He rolls his shoulders forward, rocks back and settles again. "My mom plays Mozart all the time whenever I'm home," he says. "I learned guitar when I tried to follow the violin parts – which, if you haven't tried, is really Goddamn difficult."

Dean smiles. When he does it, it's lopsided and shows his teeth. It makes him look boyish, roguish. Castiel likes that smile a lot, and admires the way it dimples one of Dean's pink cheeks. "Do you play anything?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head. "Nah," he replies.

They fall into silence again. Dean's hands flatten on his thighs, brushing down, and he taps his palms flat against his knees. He looks around, sucking in a breath. Castiel can't tear his eyes away from him.

"So," Dean begins. Stops. Licks his lips and Castiel swallows when their eyes meet. "I gotta ask." Castiel tilts his head to one side. "You put tuna in your Mac'n'Cheese? _Really_?"

A laugh bursts out of Castiel's chest, startled and high. It makes Dean smile, though, and he rests his elbows on his knees, like he's enraptured by the way Castiel covers his hand with his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter. "Hey, I will not take judgement on food choices, especially culinary genius!"

"Genius?" Dean repeats, teasing and soft.

"If you tell me you're some kinda chef, I'll eat my guitar."

Dean rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "My diet is more of the 'Let's see how long this pizza lasts until it becomes unrecognizable."

"And you judge me!"

Dean's smile evens out, splitting his face. His broad shoulders are shaking with barely-restrained laughter. "Alright, test number two," he says, and Castiel nods, mock serious. "Pineapple on pizza?"

"Oh, Hell yeah!" Castiel replies.

"Thank God," Dean says, pressing a hand to his heart like he's just been told he'll make it after threat of death.

Castiel smiles, a flutter of joy running down his spine. He's never warmed up to anyone this quickly, painfully shy except when he's forcing himself not to be during interviews and performances. Of course, this is his _soulmate_ , so he shouldn't be surprised. But he is. Pleasantly.

"So, Dean," he begins, eager to keep Dean talking. Dean's voice is soft like he's been conditioned through too many library-soaked years not to speak too loudly, and he has an accent vaguely Southern. "What are you in school for?"

Dean sighs, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I want to become a therapist," he says.

Castiel nods, recalling that from the video. "For families, right?" he says. Dean's eyes flash to the camera, and he huffs, nodding once. "Does that happen a lot? Like, marriages and divorces and stuff because people marry when they aren't soulmates?"

"Happens more than you'd think," Dean replies, expression fading to something much more sober. "And these people tend to have kids. Lifelong bonds ruined because suddenly they feel…" He stops, swallows harshly. "Though, I'll admit, I can see why someone might want something like this. I had no idea…"

Castiel nods. He understands completely.

"Are your parents soulmates?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head.

"I can only imagine what that must be like," Castiel says gently. Dean looks at him, mouth turning down at the corners. "I grew up knowing that finding your soulmate was going to be wonderful. I never doubted it for a second. But you…didn't." He tries to think of something else to say, but can't. Of course, words fail him now when they usually come to him so easily.

Dean rolls his eyes, manages a tight smile. "Well, enough of my backstory," he says. "Sorry, you have to be a level two soulmate to unlock my deepest, darkest fears."

Castiel laughs, confused by the metaphor but understanding the gist. "Well, how can I level up?" he asks.

Dean smiles. He presses his lips together, and his eyes rake down Castiel's face, to his knees, and back up. "How about lunch?"

Castiel nods, the butterflies abruptly taking flight in his stomach, and he reaches out and rests his hand over Dean's, on Dean's knee. "I'd like that."

 

 

They leave the studio and Dean takes Castiel to one of his favorite pizza places, which is thankfully just a few blocks away, so they can walk. No one recognizes Castiel, and for that Dean is glad – he doesn't want to be chased by photographers and fans everywhere he goes, especially if this ends up going somewhere.

He looks at Castiel as they walk together, finds him with his head upturned, staring wide-eyed at the sky which is the same color as the bright flush of blue in his irises.

He swallows. In a world where someone's soulmate could manifest at any age and in any body, Dean had never given much thought as to what his soulmate, if such a person did exist, would look like. But Castiel is…pretty. That's a good word for it. He's lanky like he still has some growing to do even though he's older than Dean, his jaw and cheekbones are sharp angles on his face, drawing the eye naturally up to his bright eyes and his dark hair.

He's smiling, and averts his eyes when Castiel looks at him. Castiel huffs, nudges his shoulder like they just shared an inside joke, and Dean leads the way into the pizza parlor. The man behind the counter is old and balding, round-bellied with a lazy eye. He nods to Dean in recognition and Dean orders a large Hawaiian pizza and two fountain drinks. He pays, and they fill up their cups at the soda station and take a seat towards the back of the place.

Castiel looks around, apparently enthralled with the yellow walls, the stains of brown grease so etched into the red-tiled floor it will likely never be its original color. The scents of cheese and grease are welcome and familiar to Dean.

The place is mostly empty, save for the cashier and the cook, and another couple huddled close by the window at the front. It is not, however, without noise. They're close to the kitchen and Dean can hear orders being shouted to the employees, and the clinks of dishes, the soft roar of the pizza oven.

"My mouth is watering just sitting here," Castiel says.

Dean smiles. "Bobby makes the best pie in D.C.," he replies. "It'll give you a heart attack, guaranteed."

"Great," Castiel replies, his smile wide and close-lipped. "I'll make sure Anna knows you assassinated me."

Dean hums, fingers idly drawing lines in the condensation at the side of his cup. "How long have you known her?"

"She's been my manager for years, but I knew her growing up too. She and my mom are best friends."

"Must be nice, to have a familiar face on tour."

"Oh, yeah," Castiel replies, smiling. "And Gabriel, my lead guitar, he's been my best friend since forever. So, I don't know, I never really feel that far from home."

"Do you get to visit often?"

"Yeah." Castiel nods. "Holidays and birthdays, stuff like that. If the tour kicks off, I'll probably be away from home more often." He pauses, and winces. "Well, given how I acted last time, I don't know if that's going to happen."

"Well, I think the world will forgive you," Dean replies gently. "Seeing color is kind of a big deal."

Castiel nods, his cheeks pink in the heat of the room. He has his eyes low, fixed on the rainbow wristband on his left arm. Dean nods to it. "That how you knew?"

Castiel nods. "How did you?"

"I saw the grass," Dean replies. "And the sky. And my screensaver is rainbow, on my phone."

Castiel winces. "I saw stage lights," he says. "And a lot of neon. Like, a _lot_ of neon."

"Yeah." Dean laughs. "It's kind of jarring when you realize how much you don't see before, isn't it? Like, like can you imagine being deaf and suddenly hearing? Trapped in a dark room, and suddenly seeing light?"

Castiel nods. "When the colors started fading, I can't describe how sad I was," he says quietly. Dean swallows, a flash of guilt etching itself behind his eyes when Castiel meets his gaze. "Why didn't you come forward sooner?"

"Honestly? I kind of did," Dean says, shrugging. "I figured it was someone in the audience, you know, and I put out an ad on Craigslist. But I didn't know about…your thing. Until my friend saw Anna's tweets."

"Thank God for the internet," Castiel says, somewhat wryly. He smiles again.

Dean swallows, looking past Castiel's shoulder as the other couple get up and leave with a wave back to Bobby. "That's something I wanted to mention," he says, hesitantly. Castiel's brow wrinkles. "I know, I mean, I know you're not Michael Jackson or whatever, but you have the potential to be famous. Recognized."

Castiel presses his lips together, his face smoothing out in understanding. "The paparazzi have eyes that never shut," he says with a nod. He sighs and takes a sip of his Coke.

"And I get that," Dean says, insistently. He reaches out and takes Castiel's free hand, marveling at the way the golden hue of the room brightens, for just a moment, when their hands touch. Castiel is looking down at their hands as well, his eyes wide. His fingers curl to settle against Dean's palm. "But do you think we could, I don't know, not make this public? Just yet?"

Castiel nods, lifting his gaze. "Of course," he says, and he speaks like he genuinely understands, like he wants to put Dean's mind at ease. "This is brand new. For both of us. I haven't even figured out if you're a sociopath yet."

Dean laughs, startled at the joke. "Right. And you could be really boring," he replies.

Castiel rolls his eyes, and sits more upright, but doesn't move his hand. "Comparing crazy with boring isn't exactly fair," he says.

The kitchen door opens and Bobby comes out, holding their pizza with both hands. "Sit back," he says gruffly, and sets it down between them with two paper plates. Dean grins at him and Bobby returns to the kitchen.

Castiel breathes in deeply, taking a slice that's dripping with cheese and grease. The pineapple sits in bright patches of yellow, the ham a shining pink, the peppers and tomato sauce rich and red. Dean knows the food is good, but now it looks _amazing_.

They eat, and talk for hours, sharing pieces of the first pizza, and then a second. Castiel is wonderful, Dean discovers – he's sweet and eager and has terrible stage fright. He can quote Shakespeare from memory, and his favorite movie is _Finding Nemo._ Dean wonders how much prettier the movie will be now that they can see in color.

It's nearing four in the afternoon by the time they cannot eat another bite, and Dean feels a food coma coming on hard and fast. Castiel's eyes are drooping too, despite the ten-plus sodas he drank. Dean stretches, yawning, and rubs his hand over the bulge of his stomach.

Castiel sighs, and paws at his pockets, frowning. "Crap," he mutters. "I left my phone at the studio."

"Someone probably framed you for murder," Dean says coolly, nodding in resignation. "What's your alibi worth to you?"

Castiel's eyes flash, and he smiles, slow and wide. This one shows teeth, and Dean answers in kind. "Name your price," he says lowly.

Dean huffs a laugh. "You're eager to be extorted," he teases.

"Only by people I like," Castiel says, his cheeks darkening at the admission.

Dean reaches forward, taking his hand again. "Let me walk you back," he says. Castiel blinks at him. "And I get your number out of it. That's my price."

Castiel laughs. "Deal."

 

 

Dean returns home, Castiel's phone number stored in his phone, and opens his laptop, sighing when the glaring white of his thesis paper pops up almost accusingly. He's still several hundred words short of the necessary count, and he puts his chin in his hand, rereading his opening remarks, and sighs again.

It's getting hard to see the world in black and white anymore.

The blinking line on the screen is like the tick of a metronome, and it quickly turns annoying. Dean huffs, rolls his eyes at himself, and takes out his phone.

He calls his mother.

"Dean!" she crows, and Dean can hear her smiling. He smiles back without effort.

"Hey, mama," he says. "How's the homestead?"

"The foxes are getting bolder," she tells him. Dean's mother lives in a suburb in Lawrence, Kansas, and their house backs up into a small ravine filled with trees. A family of foxes lives there, and a hawk. That's why Dean's mother's cats aren't allowed outside. "I heard them fighting the other night. Sounded like quite the battle!"

Dean hums.

"What's going on, baby?" she asks, after a moment of silence.

Dean sighs, rubs his hand over his face, and looks at his paper for a long time. "I'm seeing colors, mama," he says quietly. "I met my soulmate."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" she replies. And she sounds genuinely happy for him. Dean frowns. "When did this happen? Are they nice? Tell me everything!"

"Jeez, slow down," Dean says, but he's smiling. She laughs, low and gentle as she always has. "It happened a few days ago, but I just met him today. Yes, he's nice. He's a musician, my age. He's…cute." Dean winces. That's not the right word for it, but he's loathe to try and search for another one. How can one adequately describe the way gold filters through the air whenever he touches Castiel?

She hums. "What's on your mind?"

"Do you ever regret not trying to find your soulmate?" he asks her. "Staying with dad?"

She pauses, and then sighs. Dean hears the familiar creak of her favorite armchair, and wonders what color it really is. "Dean, I'm gonna tell you something," she says. Dean nods. "I met my soulmate a long time ago."

Dean gasps. " _What_?" he demands.

"She was in the hospital when you were born," she says. "She was one of the nurses who helped me feed you."

"Why did you -? What?" Dean sits forward, closing his computer. His essay can wait. "Why did you never say anything? Do anything?"

"Because I loved your father, baby. I still do. He's the love of my life." She says it so easily – how? How could she possibly live like that, knowing who her soulmate was, never seeking them out? "I know you always thought a soulmate was the be-all, end-all, and sometimes it is, and that's okay. But falling in love with your best friend is just as wonderful. Your father has always been my best friend, and always will be."

"Mama," Dean breathes. He can't think of anything else to say. "Does dad know?"

She hums. "There are a lot of types of love in the world, Dean," she says, soothing. "He knows. He even invited her to dinner when we brought you home. We became friends, but she moved out of state after a few years. I haven't seen her since."

Dean tries to think of his father, mild-mannered as Dean aged, but definitely from an older generation of surliness and discipline when he was a kid, inviting this threat into his own home. He tries, and he can't. "I had no idea," he says.

"I never regretted it, not for a single second," his mother says firmly. "And if you decide that this boy doesn't work for you, you owe it to him to be up front about that, but it doesn't end there. If he breaks your heart, then it doesn't matter how the world looks. Everything turns gray if the relationship isn't strong and isn't mutually beneficial."

Dean swallows, ignoring the ache in his chest at the thought of Castiel doing something to hurt him – or, somehow worse, him hurting Castiel. He can't imagine watching colors bleed away and knowing he had done nothing to stop it from happening. His mindset from not even twenty-four hours prior seems foreign to him, like looking at a caricature of his own face.

"I'm glad you told me," he says after a while.

"Well, I'm glad you called," she replies.

Dean smiles, and opens up his laptop again. "Thanks, mama," he murmurs. "You always know what to say."

"It's my job. Love you, Dean-bean."

"Love you, too."

 

 

Dean wakes up to an insistent knock at his door. He jerks upright, wiping the line of drool from his mouth with a grimace, and shoves himself to his feet. He checks the peephole and sighs, opening the door to reveal Charlie in all her red-lime-hair, pinstriped pink glory.

"I'm going to have to start dressing you," he says by way of greeting, allowing her inside. She's bouncing on her heels and fixes him with a wide grin.

"Well?" she says. Her fists come together in front of her chest, shaking back and forth like she's trying to force two bars together.

"Well?" Dean repeats, eyebrow raised.

She settles, breathes out, and flattens her hands in prayer, fingertips touching her lips. "Dean Winchester, I love you, but if you keep behaving like a smartass and parrot back at me _one more time_ they will never find your body." Dean grins. "How'd it go? The color test? Is Castiel your soulmate?"

Before he can answer, she claps a hand to her forehead, her eyes wide. "Oh my God, duh! You just commented on my outfit, which means you can still see color. So of course he is!"

Dean sighs, skirting past her and back to his laptop. He has a late class today and needs to turn his paper in. He saves the draft and closes it, sliding it into his bag so he doesn't forget.

"I can't believe you're dating _Castiel Novak_ ," she declares, loudly. Dean winces and turns to her, shushing her.

"Would you cool it?" he demands. She blinks at him. "He and I agreed to be discreet about it. Until we, well, until we get to know each other better."

She huffs, rolls her eyes, and takes out her phone. She pauses. "Um." Dean frowns, looking at her. "Kind of late for that."

Dean's eyes widen when she turns her phone, showing him a picture of him and Castiel, obviously taken from across the street to the studio. He and Castiel are standing close, grinning at each other, Castiel's cheeks a dark pink. Dean remembers that moment – Castiel had made a terrible pun about clouds and Dean's full stomach had ached with repressed laughter.

He smiles when he remembers it, only to go cold when he reads the headline below.

"Shit," he says, rubbing his hand over his mouth. Charlie withdraws her phone, lips pursed. "There's no chance that photo exists in a void on the internet that only you can see, right?"

She sighs, and shakes her head. "It was posted yesterday," she replies. "Already got a few hundred likes and retweets." She smiles at him, sly and playful. "You're famous."

Dread coils up, slick and cold, in Dean's stomach. "Shit," he says. His arms are stuck at his sides, and he can't bring himself to move.

"Hey, hey." Charlie steps up to him and waves a hand in front of his face. He blinks, looking at her. "What's the problem?"

"I…" Dean winces. "I didn't want to go public with this. What if something goes wrong?"

She rolls her eyes. "You're such a pessimist!" she says, slapping his arm. "Why does it have to go wrong?" She pauses, and cocks her head to one side. "I mean. You do like him, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"And he seems to like you?"

"I mean…yeah…"

"Then what's the _problem_?"

"I don't want people following me around and getting up in my business!" Dean replies. "I think that's pretty reasonable."

She huffs. "Look, the damage has already been done," she says, holding her phone up like it's a beacon of light and information. "I can run interference as best I can. Luckily you're not on Twitter or whatever, so you don't have to worry about that. But, I mean, he's your _soulmate_ , Dean. Are you seriously going to wuss out because someone took a picture of you?"

Dean bites his lower lip, and rolls his shoulders. He doesn't know what to say. "I have to get to class," he lies, and grabs his bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. His phone is lighting up, texts from Castiel. Dean doesn't look at them. "I'll see you later. Just…leave me alone for now, okay? I need to think."

"Don't be an asshole," she says sternly. "I know you're, like, hardwired to do it. Whatever you decide, I want you to be really sure about this."

"Oh, don't worry," Dean says darkly. "I will be."

 

 

By the time Dean gets to class, he knows it's too late. The lecture hall goes silent when he enters, and he sees several groups exchange low whispers over their phones and laptops. He growls to himself, already in a worse mood, and sits at the very back of the hall in an attempt to sequester himself off.

But unfortunately that spot gives him a view of everyone's laptops, and he can see more than one of them have the article pulled up, the picture of him and Castiel in brilliant color. His fingers curl, and he scowls as his phone chimes with another text.

He takes it out. It's Castiel. Again.

"I saw the picture. I'm so sorry, Dean. Can we talk?"

"I get it if you need space. Just let me know you're alright, please?"

"Anna called the editor, ripped him a new one, but the story already ran. I'll do as much damage control as I can?"

One missed call.

"Dean? Please, text me when you get this. I just want to talk."

Then, the newest text;

"I hope you're doing okay."

That one makes Dean soften, the clawed anger in his chest gentling abruptly. He sighs, and scratches the back of his neck, and unlocks his phone. He sets it to silent when his teacher walks in.

"I have class right now. Can we talk after?"

His phone is silent for a moment, then flashes, lighting up the rainbow screensaver.

"Of course. Thank you. Talk soon."

Dean sighs, putting his phone away. He tries to concentrate on the lecture, but it's mostly for the sake of turning in the essay that he's there at all. He doesn't want to hear about Father X meeting Soulmate Y and leaving his wife and kids behind to be with them. He doesn't want to hear of two kids who are soulmates and got separated because their parents hated each other, leading to self-harm and depression for one and drug addiction for the other. He doesn't want to hear about divorce, and child abuse, and widows.

The lecture ends, and Dean hangs back, turning in his paper copy after the rest of the students file out. His teacher smiles at him when he hands it to her.

"I guess congratulations are in order," she says.

Dean grimaces, and leaves. He goes out to the parking lot and gets in his car, where at least he should, hopefully, remain undisturbed.

He calls Castiel.

"Hey," Castiel greets, soft and relieved like he'd been in a panic state until Dean called, and now he can finally breathe. He sighs over the phone and Dean imagines him flicking at his wristband as he noticed Castiel does when he's nervous, imagines his hand between his knees and his head bowed, rocking back and forth with nervous energy in a chair. "Listen, I wanna apologize about -."

"I don't think I can do this," Dean says. Out with it, rip off the band-aid. Better to have loved and lost.

Castiel's breath catches, and he doesn't say anything.

"That was one picture, Cas," Dean continues. " _One_. And I really like you – I like you a Goddamn lot – but I can't be photographed and followed around for the rest of my life. I want to help people and I can't do that if my future patients have to suffer paparazzi and interviews and all this other shit."

Castiel makes a soft, wounded sound. Shaky, without volume.

Then, equally quietly; "I don't want the colors to go away."

Dean closes his eyes. The black of his eyelids ties his stomach in knots.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. His throat feels tight and thick, his head burning. He has no idea why he's fighting the urge to cry – they had one date, just one, and it was amazing and wonderful and everything Dean never thought he could have, but it was just one.

Castiel swallows audibly. "Anna booked a three-week tour for me on the West coast," he says. Dean nods, pressing his lips together. "I leave tomorrow. Will you…will you just promise me you'll think about it? I'm not asking you to change your mind. I just…"

He stops. His voice is too weak, but it wounds Dean all the same. He opens his eyes and the world looks suddenly so gray, storm clouds dark over the lecture building, promising thunder and rain. His mother's words echo in his head, and he swallows them back.

"I'll think about it," he says.

Castiel sighs. "Thank you."

Dean hangs up, and throws his phone into the passenger seat, his free hand slamming on the top of the steering wheel. "God _damn_ it," he growls, rubbing his hand over his mouth. His eyes are wet, and he blinks rapidly, trying to force the tears back.

This is stupid. This is _insane_. How can he be so Goddamn heartbroken over someone he barely knows? Yes, okay, someone who literally brings color into the world – and without him, the colors will fade, thrusting Dean back into the gray and black and white he's known all his life – but still, someone he has spent less than twenty-four hours with. Someone whose world is so vastly different that Dean wonders at the idea that they might ever line up.

He turns on his car, growling low, and peels out of the parking lot as it starts to rain.

 

 

Charlie is still in his apartment when he gets home, laden with ice cream tubs, Chinese food, and enough books to block his view until he sets them down and finds her on the couch, channel surfing. He glares at her. "Don't you have a job, or, you know, your own place?" he demands.

She purses her lips, turns off the TV, and looks at him. She frowns. "What happened?"

"Reality happened," Dean replies. He shoves the ice cream into the freezer and digs around for a fork, opening the first carton of food and stabbing a piece of sweet and sour pork with more vehemence than is strictly necessary.

He shoves the pork into his mouth and chews it, glaring darkly at his stack of books. Finals are just around the corner and he's going to tank them if he doesn't get his head on straight.

Charlie pushes herself up from his couch – that ugly, ugly lime green couch – and walks over to him, one hand on her hip, the other resting on the kitchen counter. She ducks her head, so Dean is forced to meet her eyes.

"Whose reality?" she asks, one eyebrow rising.

Dean shakes his head and glares at her. "Not in the mood."

"Dean." She sighs, drums her nails on the counter, and looks away. "Was he upset?"

"Yeah," Dean says, and ignores the aggravation he feels when she doesn't ask him what _he's_ feeling about it. She cares more about Castiel's feelings than his own. Then again, Dean isn't exactly being coy about his emotions.

She folds her arms across her chest, her eyes still on Dean's stack of books. She nods, presses her lips together, and straightens up. "Alright. Well, I'll let you mope. Call me when you get your head outta your ass."

Dean rolls his eyes, silent as she leaves. His gaze lands on the poster of Van Gogh's _Starry Night_ , and he tries to memorize the curves of the different blues, the brilliant splashes of yellow, the way each color compliments and completes the entire picture. Eventually, he won't be able to see it at all except a landscape of grays and blacks.

He sighs, appetite suddenly gone, and leaves his food out on the counter. He flops down on his ugly couch and buries his face in the cushions. His phone is silent.

 

 

"Well, something was obviously wrong with him," Gabriel declares. It had taken him less than a minute to see Castiel's distress, coax the truth out of him, and write Dean off as a madman or an asshole.

Castiel bites his lower lip, fidgeting with his wristband. "There's nothing wrong with him," he says morosely. "It was me. My lifestyle. He couldn't see himself in it." He lifts his eyes out of the car and huffs a bitter laugh at the sight of people taking his picture as the car drives from the hotel, towards the airport. "Can't say I blame him."

"Narrowmindedness is no excuse," Gabriel says. Anna has already gone ahead to check them in for their flights. The trip to the airport will be a short drive and Castiel just wants to get there, get on the plane, leave this whole city behind.

"He never asked for this," Castiel murmurs. "Frankly, neither did I. But it's happened, so." He shrugs one shoulder.

Gabriel shakes his head, fixing Castiel with an uncharacteristically sympathetic look. "I know it sucks, man," he says, and slaps a hand on Castiel's shoulder, squeezing gently. "But it won't always hurt this bad. And, I mean, it's not like you really knew the guy that well."

Castiel closes his eyes. He knows Gabriel is just trying to make him feel better, but; "You don't get it," he snaps. "You have no idea how pretty the world is, how beautiful and vibrant and, and it was like as soon as I saw him, the whole world became bright. The air was colored with gold, and I want to see everything all over again. I want to see my parents' farm, I want to go to Rome because I know it's a beautiful place, it was beautiful even when I couldn't see color. I want to watch the sunset every night. I want to go to the ocean and watch the sky change. I want…"

He stops, swallows harshly.

"And I want to do all of that with him, and I'll never get to," he finishes. "Once the colors fade, that's it. And instead of doing all those things I'll be in Goddamn green rooms and music vans and doing interviews in dark rooms, and I won't get to see anything of the world until everything goes gray again."

Gabriel is silent in the wake of his rant, and Castiel breathes out, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. His head is killing him, and he sighs. "Well, on the bright side," he adds bitterly, "I have new shit to write about."

"That's…the spirit?" Gabriel says, hesitantly. Castiel looks over at him, takes in his dark shirt and the shadows under his eyes. He's sure he looks no better – it's no wonder musicians always look exhausted. He manages a weak smile. "Hey, you'll always have little ol' me."

Castiel's chest goes tight, affection and humor warring for a bright flash of levity in the otherwise solemn car. "You're a good friend, Gabriel," he whispers. "But you're a bad motivational speaker."

"Words hurt, you know."

Castiel smiles. He settles back in his seat, and closes his eyes.

 

 

Dean is a mess.

He'll admit it – openly, freely.

He's a Goddamn mess.

The first few days, after Castiel left, he'd started to get used to the whispers and the abruptly ended conversations between his classmates whenever he entered or left a room. He'd learned to ignore the picture of him and Castiel on people's screens, no longer bothered by its existence but more marveling that people still cared. He supposes any closeness to fame is worth it for some people.

Sam called him, the night after the article aired. Dean didn't answer.

Charlie doesn't talk to him, and Dean won't cave first. They're both proud people.

Then, colors start to fade. He notices it first when his couch no longer makes him wince. Instead, it's a pearled, whited-out green now, like someone mixed the color with black and then panicked and tried to lighten it back to its original color. Then, above it, the Van Gogh poster is just a mesh of black and off-black.

He doesn't see red and green stoplights anymore. Doesn't note the difference in the colors of the sunset. It's all fading, it's all going away, and he'd known it was coming but the sheer loss hits him like a brick to the head.

The last color to fade is the gold. That pretty gold, that touches everything as though through a filter. It outlines his classmates and circles buildings, cars, animals. It touches gray grass and silver skies and every time Dean searches for it, chases it with his eyes, it gets a little thinner, a little more pale.

Then, two weeks in, it's gone, and the world is black and white again.

Dean doesn't go to class that day. Or the next.

He gets a call from his mother.

"I found out about that boy who's your soulmate," she tells him. Dean groans, rolling himself tighter in a burrito of black blankets and sheets. Everything's black, everything's dark – so damn clichéd. "Baby, what happened?"

"I couldn't -." Dean stops, swallows, growls into the phone. "I don't wanna live like that, mama. Being followed around and talked about all the time. I got a taste for it and you can keep it."

She's silent for a moment. "That sounds like a very lonely way to live," she says, gently.

"I'll say."

"I imagine this boy – Castiel – I imagine he's lonely, too."

Dean presses his lips together. He doesn't want to think about Castiel, and yet every quiet moment is filled with him. His bright eyes, which Dean can no longer recall the exact hues of, his loud laughter. The gentle heat of his fingers in Dean's hand.

"He's got fans and groupies and friends looking out for him," Dean says. "I'm sure he'll do just fine."

She hums. "Well, baby, it's your decision, ultimately. I've always tried to raise you to do what you think is right, and if you think this is the right move for you, of course I'll support you." She pauses. "But you don't sound alright."

Dean clenches his eyes tightly shut, wrapping his free arm around his head. "I'm not," he whispers. "Did it feel like this? When you met your soulmate and she went away?"

"I'll admit, I missed her terribly," his mother replies. "But this isn't the same, baby. Not like that. Yes, being with her would have changed my life dramatically, but I wouldn't have you, or Sammy, and I wouldn't have your father. I suppose it's worth asking yourself if this boy is worth changing your life for. My answer was 'No', but that's because I was already happy." She pauses. "Are you happy, Deany?"

Dean bites his lower lip, and gives that question some serious thought. Is he? He has school, of course, and he enjoys his classes – but not since Castiel left. He has Charlie, but she hasn't spoken to him since the breakup. He has…he has a crappy apartment and eats food way past its best-by date. He watches dumb TV shows and has no one to make jokes with. He listens to music and finds it lackluster and distracting.

The world is so gray.

"No," he replies, finally. "I'm not."

She hums. "Do you think Castiel could make you happy?"

Dean sits up, abruptly. "I gotta call you back," he says. She laughs and tells him to have a good day, and Dean hangs up and receives a chime on his phone.

It's a link, from Charlie, with the message 'Look what you did'.

He frowns, and opens it. It's a crappy recording from a concert, but Dean would recognize Castiel's face anywhere. He opens the link and the video loads as he gets out of bed, and the scratchy chorus of cheers erupts from the speakers.

The video is gray, of course, Castiel a pale line in the middle.

"Hi L.A., how's everyone doin' tonight?" he greets. The crowd's cheers get louder, and Dean winces.

No, he's not happy. And from the sorrow in Castiel's voice, he's not happy either.

"This is a new song I wrote about a week ago. I hope you guys like it." He nods to his guitarist, who starts to play a slow melody. It's in minor key, achingly sad, and Dean swallows past the lump in his throat. Castiel's guitar joins in, purposefully discordant, notes that don't belong together swirling through the air.

Dean stops the video before he starts to sing. He can't bear to hear it.

He scrolls through his list of previous calls, finds Anna's number that he never saved but knows from the timestamp for what it is. He calls it, and it rings three times, before she answers.

"Anna Milton."

"Anna, this is…this is Dean."

"Dean." Anna's voice is cold and distant and Dean sighs, sitting back down on his bed. "What can I do for you?"

"I made a mistake."

"I'll say."

"I screwed up royally, I know that. But I want to make things right."

She pauses, and Dean hears her moving, and the sound of a door closing behind her. "How do you propose to do that?" she asks.

"I don't know," Dean replies, helplessly. "I – should I call him? I want to call him. I want to hear his voice, but I don't know if he'll answer, and I don't even know what I would say. I want to fly out there and meet him, but I don't have the money for that and I don't want to put him on the spot."

She tuts, clucking her tongue against her teeth. "You broke my boy's heart," she says. "I love him like he's my own, and you know how much he likes you."

"Please," Dean begs. He opens his eyes, looks at his black curtains. His black door. His black bed. "Please. I need – I need to see him again. I need to apologize to him, in person. I need to see colors."

Anna huffs. "You get one more chance," she says after a moment. "He's flying back this Saturday, into Dulles. Eight a.m."

"I'll be there," Dean swears. His shoulders feel looser than they have in days, his heart stuttering with excitement. If gray is death, is this what it feels like to be alive. "I swear. I'll be there."

"Good."

 

 

Dean goes to Charlie's apartment and, when she opens the door, holds up a large strawberry slushee.

"I'm an asshole," he says, before she can speak. She's wearing – well, Dean doesn't know what colors she's wearing, but they're dark and patchwork grays and blacks. She's dyed her hair a different color too. She cocks her head to one side and raises both eyebrows, folding her arms.

"Good start," she says.

"I'm an asshole, and I've been a little bitch and hiding behind my own bullshit when really I shouldn't let my hang ups get in the way of something that could be really great, and you're the best friend ever and I owe you my life and my firstborn which will never happen 'cause apparently my soulmate is a guy, which is fine, of course, and in lieu of living children I will shower you with food and hugs until you get tired of me."

Her eyes flash, and she smirks. "Alright," she says, and takes the slushee. "What changed your mind?"

"I got tired of being sad," Dean replies. "I got tired of being alone."

She nods, humming.

"Castiel is flying into Dulles tomorrow morning. I'm going to meet him and try and fix this royal screw up."

She blinks at him, and smiles around her straw. "And you're here, because…?"

"Because I have no idea what to say," Dean says, helplessly. "And you're so smart and brilliant and I was hoping you could help me out."

She laughs, delighted, and steps back to allow him inside. "Alright, Casanova. I'll give it my best shot!"

 

 

Dean is probably going to throw up.

No, he's definitely going to throw up.

He's shaking with nerves in a way he hasn't felt since he had to give his first oral presentation in front of a classroom. Maybe stage fright is a soulmate thing, something they can both bond over. He sits outside the airport in a dark car that pulled up when he went inside, yelled his name, and demanded he get in.

"Anna told me you were coming," the driver says. "This'll be a little more private."

Dean is relieved, of course. He doesn't want to go through all the paparazzi and he doesn't want to put Castiel in the position of having to publicly reject him, if he decides to.

So he sits, and waits, and watches the gray airplanes streak through the sky as they come in to land, or launch towards wherever they're meant to be going. The car is silent except for his breathing and the anxious patter of his palms against his knees.

Then, he sees it. Blue, touching the horizon. He straightens up and watches with wide eyes as the airport doors open, pouring out a cluster of young people waving pieces of paper to be signed, shouting 'Castiel! Castiel!', and photographers trying to get their shot. Anna leads the charge, her hand around Castiel's arm and her face set as she marches them towards the car.

Dean watches, his heart is his throat, as Castiel abruptly stops. His eyes widen, and he straightens, gasping and looking up at the sky. The blue sky. The reds and blues and yellows of cars as they pass. The white and blue buses. The silvery-gray of the airplanes.

He looks to Anna, who smiles at him, and nods towards the car.

Dean sits forward, and watches as Castiel yanks his arm from her grip, and runs straight towards the car Dean is sitting in, and Dean suddenly doesn't give a damn who sees. He gets out of the car just in time for Castiel to reach him, and Castiel is smiling, wide-eyed and eager, and he throws himself into Dean's arms.

His laughter is loud, his arms wrapping around Dean's chest tightly as Dean grips his shoulders. He cups Castiel's neck, buries his face in Castiel's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, into Castiel's blue shirt. Bright blue, like the sky at midday. "I'm so fucking sorry. For everything."

"You're here," Castiel replies, his voice just as muffled. He's hugging Dean almost too tightly for him to breathe but Dean doesn't care. Around them, Dean can hear people calling Castiel's name, and the clicks and flashes of cameras. He finds it hard to care about those, either, with Castiel in his arms.

He pulls back, grinning when he sees the bright sea-blue of Castiel's eyes. The shimmer of gold around his face is beautiful, and when he cups Castiel's jaw, Castiel's cheeks blush a very deep pink.

He bites his lower lip, looking around as best he can with Dean's hands on his face. "Right here?" he asks, breathless.

Dean smiles, and rests their foreheads together. "Right here," he whispers.

Castiel laughs, and Dean tilts his head to one side, eyes closing as their lips meet. Castiel surges against him, pinning him against the car, his hands large and warm on Dean's sides as their kiss deepens.

People are screaming at them. Dean doesn't pay attention – he tunes them out, listens instead to the shaky draw of Castiel's breath, hears his gentle moan, dives deep into the swirl of colors exploding behind his eyes.

When they part, their foreheads still touch, and Castiel's smile is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Dean sighs. "I want this," he confesses, whisper-quiet. Castiel swallows, nodding before he's even finished. "I want to try, really try, this time. I'm not going to run away."

"I won't, either," Castiel breathes.

"Good." Dean can't help himself. He kisses Castiel again, chaste and closed-mouthed, and Castiel gasps. "'Cause someone crazy told me tuna was good in Mac'n'Cheese and I need to find out for myself."

Castiel laughs, bright-eyed. "Prepare to ascend," he replies. Their noses brush and Castiel's hands slide down Dean's arms, circle his wrists, and hold tight. "You have no idea what you're in for."

Dean knows that. He's excited to find out.

He steps away from the car, meets Anna's eyes, and smiles at her. He uses his body to shield Castiel as Castiel climbs into the car and Dean settles in behind. "Let's go."

 

 

The next morning, Dean wakes to upwards of twenty texts from Charlie, all in various extremes of key smashing, exclamation points, and question marks. There's a link to the article detailing his and Castiel's reunion, and he laughs to himself.

At his side, Castiel stirs, rolls onto his back and smiles lazily up at Dean. "What's so funny?"

"My friend is freaking out," Dean says, rolling his eyes. He sets his phone down and rolls over Castiel, pinning him to the bed, and kisses him deeply. Castiel hums into the kiss, smiling wide when Dean pulls away. "You should meet her, soon. Before she beats my door down and kidnaps you."

Castiel blinks, and his eyes widen in fake horror. "Oh no," he murmurs. " _She's_ the sociopath, isn't she?"

"She's not a sociopath," Dean says, rolling his eyes.

"Does she like pineapple on pizza?"

"No."

"Hmm." Castiel smiles, lax, showing his teeth. "Sociopath."

Dean laughs, runs his fingers up Castiel's arms, and curls them around his wrists. The bright shades of Castiel's wristband stand out even in the pre-dawn light, and he nuzzles Castiel's neck.

"Don't worry," he promises. "I'll protect you."


End file.
